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The False One
Continued from Poor Rex "No need to thank me for the ride home, that's just what good neighbors do for each other." His voice was so human. "I'll be seein' you." The bedroom door was left open, and Rita could hear the Fae's loafers padding on the carpet. Part of her tried to stifle her sobbing to hear the front door's creaking open and shut, to know he was really gone, but the rest was dragging that little piece down into hell. Her busted E-Z chair in the front room squealed like someone settled down in it, and kicked out the footrest. Her bawling began anew. The night's dreams were all of the dog she never knew, of his dog hopes and dog errands. Chasing cats as a puppy, nuzzling his boy when he was lonely. They were all nice dreams, all good times, all gifts from a benevolent dog-God. The 2 P.M. sun shone like a dog-angel through her window when she woke. Her makeup was smeared all over her eyes, and she stretched and rubbed at her face. Too early. Did something happen last night? The bed was too comfy. She was going to sleep forever. Bye, sun. The shower was hot, and Rita felt confident enough to leave the bathroom door open. She needed to go to the grocery store today. Her new shampoo smelled awesome, she couldn't help but dump extra into her hand. She was going to smell amazing, and everyone would like her, forever, because she smelled so amazing. She needed to go by the hardware store, too, needed to buy nails. She ducked her head under the water and scrubbed all over her head, rinsing, but something sharp pricked her. Her heart thumped, and felt huge, and heavy. The night's events came rushing back. She stopped the water, suds streaming off her, and she stepped out to stand in front of the mirror. Poor Rex, she thought, gazing at the horrible, horrible monster that stared back, at the eyeless, mutilated face, all spattered with Rex's blood. She couldn't go out in public like this. The heavy red canine heart that took up most of her torso thumped uselessly. She wanted to cry again, but there weren't any kleenexes. This was her Mien. She needed paper towels, too. She shut her eyes, and felt her mechanical jaw catch when she spoke. "I n-need t-to go to the ss-store." She opened her eyes, but sad, empty sockets still gazed back at her. This was bullshit. "I HAVE TO LEAVE," She screamed at her reflection, bone and metal teeth flashing at her while it screamed back, "I HAVE TO GO TO THE FUCKING BANK, TOO, AND GET CASH BEF-" Human Rita blinked back into existence. "B-b-before I can go to the h-hardware store." She grabbed her threadbare green towel with a shaking hand. "Since they d-don't take card." Shower time was over. She felt like a fugitive in the supermarket, wearing a dark hoodie and sweatpants in the middle of summer, snatching canned food and ghosting it ever-so-silently into her cart. She kept looking over her shoulder, praying to God and Mary and Jesus that the Head-Taker wasn't there. Grabbing milk was harder, the clear doors that guarded it were tough to open and close without making any sound. Whoa, milk was thirty cents cheaper. Focus, Rita. In the check-out line, she kept her head down, her fist clenched around a little makeup mirror in her pocket. She jumped when the teenager behind her sneezed. The bank was easier, she just went through the drive-thru. Could the Head-Taker drive? She wasn't sure if they had cars where the banished soldier was from. By the time she got to the hardware store, Rita Degollar was starting to relax. Tonight was her night off. She could hide in her room, barricade the door. Maybe her landlady would be okay with her boarding up all her windows. It was only temporary, of course. She ran her fingers across a sheet of plywood. Just until she eliminated Arawna. Rita froze, staring at her hand. Still human. That was the programming talking, she told herself, stalking down the musty aisles, away from the pale boards. She was here for nails, to hang a cheap print of a cool painting that she liked, because she was human, and normal, and sane, and not a psycho murderer. Arawna the Head-Taker, huh? She slammed down the plastic box of nails at the check-out, and glanced at her hand again. Still human. She risked lifting her head to look for the cashier, but no one was there. She remembered, suddenly, that she promised mom she'd come visit today. Maybe she could cut through this "Antarctica" place. What? "That all for you today, ma'am?" Asked the fat-fingered clerk, grabbing the box and scanning it in one smooth flick. "Y-yeah, th-thank you." She traded one bill for a half-dozen more, and shoved the whole bounty in her sparkly purse. "Have a g-good day." A tin voice rattled in her head. "Imposter, can you hear me?" Rita whirled on the cashier, fishing in her pocket for the mirror. "What?" "Said, 'you too'." The woman waddled back to her secret employees-only lair. "I am searching for you, Fetch." "Oh God, oh God, this is h-happening," Rita bolted out the door and ran in front of a truck. "Go away, I d-don't want to fight anybody ever!" She waved at the driver while they slammed the brakes and the horn. "My prey doesn't get a choice in the matter. You're fake, anyway. You're nothing." "Oh my God, where-" Rita slowed her dead sprint into a trot, her magic Fetch-gears spinning. "You're in An-Antarctica? You don't-" A manic guffaw ripped out of her chest, the laugh of the doomed. "I don't what, you stuttering coward?" "You-" She was gasping for air as she flung her car door open and plopped down in the hot cab. "You don't know where I-I am. You have n-no idea, like, at-at all." "I am an expert tracker, False One. I have hounded down hundreds of beasts. I have slain dozens of escaped Changelings." When Rita blinked, she could see her. "I decorate my whole home with trophies from every one of them." Tears streamed down her laughing cheeks as Rita started the car. "Guess I'd b-better t-turn in my two weeks." "Two weeks?" Arawna scoffed. She was wearing wierd, skin-colored medieval armor, Rita thought. "Don't be so generous, Imposter." No, the helmet moved when she spoke. That armor was her actual skin. "When you pause to eat, I am hunting you. When you labor under the sun, I am searching for you. When you lay down your head to sleep, I am seeking you out. When I find you, I will delight in spilling out your false life, I will taste your blood, I will-" "LA-LA-LA-LA-LA," Rita sang at her windshield, pulling into the sandwich shop by the vet clinic. It wasn't a brilliant retort, but it was the first thing that occurred to Rita. "LAAA-LAAA." "Are you finished, False One?" The Head-Taker snarled. "Y-yes," Rita tossed her keys into her purse and checked her face in the mirror. Good call, she thought, wearing waterproof mascara today. "It's been super great t-talking to you, but I'm g-going to p-pause to eat n-now." For a second, Rita heard nothing, except for something like a massive animal snorting. It sounded like a Clydesdale or something. "I will speak to you again soon, Fake." Characters involved in this Chronicle: Rita Degollar Category:Fiction